Morbius the Living Vampire: A Touch of Red
by ixnay0002
Summary: Michael Morbius has an addiction, a scientifically induced variation of an ancient curse. Morbius is a vampire, and every day he struggles with the biological need to drink fresh blood, ripped from the throat of his next victim. He fights valiantly to keep this metaphorical demon, this compulsion, in check. Some nights he's successful, barely. This is not one of those nights.


**Morbius the Living Vampire: "A Touch of Red"**  
Written by Chris Munn

Have you ever tasted blood?

Once, when I was a small child, I was sitting beneath a tree, oblivious to anything but the words contained within the book across my lap. I was not a popular child, always more concerned with schoolwork and science than the social skills that my parents sorely wished I would develop. I was teased and taunted by practically every one of my classmates, but I was successful in ignoring the cruelties of my fellow children.

Mark Blessings was the boy's name. He was by far the most aggressive of my tormentors, but it wasn't until that one day beneath the tree that his actions took on their final, physical component. For reasons I could only begin to guess, the ox of a child pummeled me about the face. The inside of my mouth split open (I later received thirty-seven stitches to repair the damage), and the liquid poured down my throat.

My first taste of blood. I vomited nearly immediately after, the sickly sweet taste reacting negatively with my throat's gag reflex. Mark and his Neanderthal friends all stood around me, laughing at my distress, and all I could think about was the metallic copper taste of my own liquid vitality. It was my first taste, but far from my last.

I have read the literature, seen the movies, and heard the tales. There is nothing romantic about my condition, I assure you. The writers, the Rices and Stokers, they profess to know the secrets of the dead; they romanticize it, as if it were an unattainable virtue that they should all only be so blessed to acquire. They know nothing of the urge, the gnawing hunger that makes your veins swell up like sausages, the sweat break upon your pale brow, and the blinding madness that consumes you. They know nothing of it, but I know all too well. Because the truth of the matter is that I have been insane since this ordeal began oh so many years ago, and when the madness takes me I know - I know - that I will die without the blood that gives me my release.

But I have had an epiphany - a moment of clarity, if you will. The thought has entered my mind many times throughout my tragic life, but I confess to a weakness of spirit that has continuously thrust me across this great world. I am a plague on mankind, a creature that needs to be shot down like a rabid animal. Self-preservation is a sense that is hard to shake, but as I cradle the body of the woman that was so kind to me over the past day, I know my hand has been forced.

It takes only seven hours before the thirst can end my life. In seven hours I will be dead, and the world will be better because of it.

My name is Michael Morbius, and this is my last will and testament.

* * *

 **Brooklyn , New York**  
 **The Night Before**

He crawled through the garbage-littered alleyway, murder on his mind. Michael Morbius fled as quickly as he could, stumbling and falling in the shadowed Brooklyn side-street. The taste of the young man's blood was still stinging his lips, the taste of metal assaulting his tongue as his senses returned to him. Blind panic was all he could register, and just as he did every night he cried and whimpered like an animal over the selfish act he had just committed.

"Not again, not again, not again," he whispered as he picked himself up from the concrete. He allowed himself a quick glance back over his shoulder, a mistake he regretted as soon as he caught eye of the bloodless corpse left in his wake. He fought the urge to vomit while falling backward, back to the hard ground. Blood still clung to his stubbled, pale face; his long ebon hair was matted down from the months he had spent on the street without bathing; and as he lay across his back under the moon hanging overhead, Michael wept and clawed at his soiled clothes.

 _ **Run**_ , the voice told him, _**run or be hunted.**_

And so he did as the voice advised and launched himself into a frantic crawl on his belly. Away from his sin, away from the boy that had done nothing but walk into the wrong alley at the wrong time on the wrong night. He scrambled to his feet and ran...out into the _light_.

Morbius hissed as he emerged onto Morgan Avenue , his slit pupils stabbed by the harsh neon and florescent assault of Brooklyn . The light hit him with an almost physical force, nearly knocking him back into the shadows of the alley, but the rational mind buried beneath the animal instinct of fight-or-flight told him that the light was artificial. It could not hurt him, no matter how bright or blinding it was.

The sound of blaring sirens snapped him back to an intense focus, and Morbius began to run down Morgan Avenue . It was barely after midnight, and the sidewalk was naturally crowded. Pedestrians were knocked aside as he wove through them, any sense of his own unnatural strength forgotten as he launched men and women alike away from him. All that mattered, as always, was his own survival...and if anything, the man called the Living Vampire was a survivor to the core.

Vampirism, he had long decided, was much like alcoholism. Every night after a binge you collapse in front of the toilet and violently purge, swearing to yourself "never again, never ever again" even when you know that it's a lie. Michael felt that way as he ran down the sidewalk, cursing his existence with every breath he took.

He was alive because someone else was dead, and he still couldn't fathom just how he could justify his condition in the face of his crimes.

His inhuman leg muscles had propelled him at top speed down the street, and as the sound of the sirens grew faint he finally decided to stop his flight. Michael turned sharply into the first empty alley that came toward him, and as he felt the relief of the shadows he fell noisily into a gathered colony of metal trash bins. Consciousness departed him, the euphoria of his blood consumption finally striking his body like a hammer.

The last thought that passed his mind was of the plague of death that followed him.

* * *

Michael screamed as he sat up, his eyes frantically dancing around the area for any sign of a threat. The last thing he remembered was the alley and the cold, damp concrete upon which he'd passed out. Wherever he was now, however, was certainly not where he had lost consciousness.

It took him a moment to realize that he was lying on a bed. It was just a simple cot, true, but after months of sleeping in boxes and abandoned buildings with their wooden floors, the soft, springy cushion felt like heaven. Despite his desire to linger, to curl up and sleep for an eternity, Michael threw his legs over and raised himself to a sitting position. His head was swimming, and then he felt the gnawing return. How long had he been unconscious, he wondered as he rubbed his eyes fiercely with thumb and forefinger? How long had it been since he'd last fed?

The light pierced his eyes through the crack of the door, shredding the darkness of the room as it slowly, cautiously opened. Morbius leapt from the bed, a growl escaping his throat, and after closing the small distance he grasped onto the door, throwing it open. The light silhouetted the unknown person that had captured him, and Michael's addled mind reacted like a caged animal. All he knew was to fight, to free himself from whatever shackles his new enemy would place around him. He snarled and flashed his claws, but stopped short when his eyes finally focused on the scared woman before him.

"What are you doing out of bed?" the young woman asked, her eyes alight with surprise.

"Morbius would have answers," Michael stated, wondering just why he constantly referred to himself in the third person, "for I am not friendly to new environments."

"Well you should've thought of that before passing out behind my building," she replied. Michael cocked his head and gave the woman a curious look. She was young, beautiful...a blonde-haired angel in small-rimmed glasses.

"Who are you?" Morbius asked as he took a few steps backward. "What is this place?"

"My name's Natalie," she answered, following him into the room, "and this is a shelter I help run. You looked like you could use some help out there, so me and James carried you inside."

"A homeless shelter?" Michael queried. "How long have I been here?"

"You were out for a few hours," Natalie responded, "we were wondering if you'd wake up at all. But you're not the first person to come through here with your affliction..." She paused and then laughed nervously. "I'm sorry; I don't even know your name."

"My name," he answered, "is Michael. And my 'affliction' is one that no man other than myself has experienced, I assure you."

"You all say the same thing," she said with a slight smile, "but trust me, nothing can surprise me. I've seen every kind of addict there is come through this place. But look, we've got showers in the back, if you'd like to use one."

Morbius hesitated. "I would like that very much," he finally admitted, "but please forgive my distrust...it has been a very long time since someone was kind to me."

"No problem," she replied, "I'll be out front. When you're done, we'll see about getting you something to eat."

* * *

He'd forgotten how good a shower could feel. The water cascaded across his pale body, washing away the months of grime and dirt that had accumulated on him. How had he allowed things to get quite so badly? It was if he had blinked and suddenly the world was unrecognizable to him. He shook his head beneath the falling water, allowing his heavy mass of black hair to whip across his face.

Who was this miraculous girl that had seemingly saved him from himself? She'd given him a bed, a chance to clean himself, and food...not garbage scavenged from trash bins, but real food. Had the scientist in him allowed it, he would have thought her to be a true angel of the Lord.

 _ **Kill her.**_

Morbius fell to his knees, slipping on the wet tile of the shower as the words reverberated in his mind. "No," he whispered, "Please, no, not now."

 _ **Kill her. Drink her red. Devour her.**_

On shaking legs, Michael regained his footing, propping himself up against the wall of the shower. "If I had my way," he muttered, "I would never feed again."

* * *

Michael walked through the dark hall that led to the front of the shelter, the illuminated outline of the doorway guiding him forward. He could hear the voices as he approached, and - though against his better judgment - he stopped and attuned his acute hearing.

"God damn it, I thought we talked about this?" a male voice said. It was harsh, forceful...full of anger.

"You talked about it," a female voice - Natalie - answered, "but I didn't agree to shit. I thought we were in this to help people, James? It seems to me that all you want to do is help yourself."

"There's a difference between helping people," the male, James, answered, "and picking up every stray that falls across our doorstep. Jesus, Natalie, how are we expected to make money on this thing? It's not like these fucking bums have wallets we can lift or anything!"

"We don't do that kind of thing anymore, James!" Natalie yelled in turn. "We're legit now; how many times do I have to say it before you get it through your thick fucking skull?"

"If my presence is a problem," Michael said as he pushed open the door, surprising the two, "I will leave immediately."

Natalie shot a look of disgust and embarrassment at her partner before turning to address the man she had rescued. "Don't be silly," she said, taking Michael's hand and leading him to a table, "whatever you want, just say the word."

"Thank you," Morbius said as he sat down. Natalie sat across from him, while James stormed out the front door of the shelter.

"Your husband seemed upset," Michael said to his host, watching with narrowed eyes as James stood outside beneath a street light, now talking with dramatic gestures on his cell phone.

Natalie laughed as she removed two cigarettes from the packet in her pocket. "James isn't my husband," she corrected, "he's my _brother_. We started this shelter together a few months ago – my idea, his funding. I think he's starting to regret the business venture now, though."

"It's a noble thing you're doing," Morbius said, his eyes finally moving back to the girl sitting across from him, "helping people whose lives are hopeless. Your brother should appreciate the ideal of such a thing, not the promise of compensation."

"Well," Natalie replied, "it's not that we haven't been _successful_. Considering the high rate of recidivism among the homeless, I'm proud to say that we haven't had a single repeat customer – if you pardon the rather glib comparison. James' problem lies in the fact that the place isn't exactly bringing in any form of money, which honestly shouldn't come as a big surprise to him, considering we're helping people who can't pay for our services."

"A logical assumption," Michael agreed, "and this is a conversation I would very much like to continue. However, I believe daybreak is quickly approaching, and I would very much like to get some rest...in your darkest room possible, if it's not too much trouble. I have a bit of a skin condition that doesn't react well with sunlight."

Natalie smiled as she looked at her wristwatch. "Wow, I'm sorry, I totally lost track of time. The room you were in earlier should work fine for you."

"Thank you for your kindness," Morbius said with a slight bow of his head toward the young woman. As he did so, however, his eyes again shifted to the window. James was still outside, talking on his cell phone, and a feeling of immense dread struck the Living Vampire.

As he took his leave, to protect himself from the harsh rays of the sun, he allowed himself a backward lingering look at Natalie.

 _ **You know you want it.**_

And the same as every other dawn, he found himself wishing the next nightfall wouldn't come.

* * *

Her name was Mary Katherine Elizabeth Monticello. It was November 22nd and she was walking home from a late dinner with friends. Snow had started to fall lightly, and she had to wrap a scarf around her neck, one given to her by an abusive ex-boyfriend from a year before. Her father had always warned her about walking the streets alone at night, but the fiercely independent Mary Katherine was confident in the self-defense lessons she'd absorbed at a younger age.

 _ **You tore out her throat before she had time to scream.**_

His name was Dennis Dunne. It was September 10th and he had spent an evening of debauchery at a strip club on the Lower East Side . Drunk on vodka and stunted by the dimwitted thoughts developed vicariously through 24 years of incestuous familial ties, Dennis went stumbling out into the night.

 _ **The last thing he saw before dying was the yellowed stains on your fangs.**_

Her name was Sarah Robinson. Only nine years old, she wandered into an alley while her inattentive mother rambled away on her cell phone. She smelled like cotton candy.

 _ **You ripped her face off when she came too close to the cardboard box you were using for shelter.**_

His name was Michael Morbius. Every moment of torment, every ounce of pain and agony...he deserved it.

 _ **You can feel free to scream now.**_

Michael's eyes shot open as he rose from the small cot, his pale skin covered in a thick layer of sweat percolated during the fever dream that gripped him during every daytime slumber. He looked around the room in a haze of confusion, several moments passing before he remembered just where he had fallen asleep. Rising from the bed, Morbius knew that the time for rest was now over – his internal clock set to wake him at dusk every night, due to the decade plus he'd spent as a creature of the night.

Immediately after standing, however, a rush of pain sent him spiraling back down to the mattress. The hunger was upon him already, his rejuvenating rest having held it back for only so long. Gritting his teeth, eyes closed tight, Morbius fought back the pangs of the thirst that assaulted his body like a physical attack. "This will not happen," he whispered – and he was honestly surprised when the voice didn't respond.

On shaking legs he stood, reaching for the dirt crusted shirt he'd tossed onto the bedside chair. He had no choice, he decided. He would have to take his leave of this place as quickly as possible, for fear of the thirst choosing his victim for him. He would not repay Natalie's kindness with a kiss of death.

The smell tickled his nostrils as he made his way back into the hostel's lobby, where he had last met the woman that had given him his much needed respite. He wasn't surprised that she wasn't there to meet him – hell, the girl had to sleep sometime, after all. But the aroma, the scent that compelled him to follow, had taken hold of him and all thought of anything else quickly passed out of his thoughts.

As he took a step into the lobby, his bare feet felt a sticky liquid the moment before all friction was lost – and he went tumbling to the floor, slipping in whatever was coating the tiled floor beneath him. As he landed on his back, his head rolled until his cheek touched the ground...and the smell hit his face full force.

It was _blood_. Pooled on the floor, left without care, and his first thought was of disbelief – how could anyone let such a precious liquid linger without response? He flipped over onto all fours, his knees and palms sinking into the shallow coating of red essence. Even in the dark, his preternatural eyesight locked him into a stare at the rejuvenating substance.

 _ **Lap it up, lap it up.**_

He licked a dry tongue across hungry fangs, his eyes widening with each word whispered by the demon. As his face lowered closer and closer to the floor, the dangling strings of black hair falling from his head began to soak up the blood. It was feeding time, finally, and like a ravenous animal he buried his face in the red and proceeded to lap at it, canine-like.

As his tongue rubbed furiously against the floor, the puddle quickly began to dissipate. His eyes darted anxiously across the floor, looking for any that he may have missed...and he spied it a few feet away. It was a trail of the red, as if the victim had been dragged, stopping on the other side of the room before a wooden door. Michael loped on all fours across the floor, his face rubbing against the trail of blood as he moved closer to the door.

When he finally reached his destination, his desperation made him forget the strength resting within his limbs, and he ripped the door from its hinges. He whipped his head in a darting motion, searching frantically for the source of the bloodletting, and finally he found it. The body was resting uncomfortably against the far wall of the large storage closet, apparently tossed inside with little care or respect.

 _ **There it is. Pre-chewed for your convenience.**_

Morbius smiled before leaping the distance between he and the corpse.

Hunched over the dead body, Michael sank his fangs deep into the jugular vein of the neck, draining it of what blood remained with as fierce suction as he could muster. After a few fruitless moments, when no more blood remained in the veins, he raised his head and began to look for the source of the blood loss. He found the gaping hole gored into the victim's midsection and hissed, then buried his face in the wound. He drank deep of the blood running freely from the obviously fresh kill, his hands digging and clawing away at the innards spilling out, freeing more space for his mouth to root around.

Finally, Morbius threw his head back, one last spurt of blood left in the body sailing into the air from his violent exit. A hiss of relief escaped his ruby stained lips, and with a nervous panting for air he kicked himself back from the corpse. He was riding the high of bloodletting, the rush of his addiction sending his brain into a swirling euphoria while his nerves danced with a tingling sensation that caused the hairs on his arms to stand on end. He braced himself against the nearest wall as he caught his breath, and slowly he began to regain his composure.

And for the first time since stepping into the lobby, he realized what had happened.

"Oh God," he whispered, his sight lingering on the mauled corpse laying a few feet away. Cautiously, he crawled back over to the body – and with a shaking hand placed behind the person's head, he lifted the deceased's face to be viewed.

Natalie Carter stared back at the Living Vampire with vacant, empty eyes, her small-rimmed pair of glasses hanging broken across her nose. "What have I done?" Michael breathed as he pulled the girl's face to his chest. A feeling of nauseous remorse crept into his stomach, the guilt of his actions hitting him with a near physical force. True, he hadn't killed her – that crime rested in the hands of another – but what _he_ had done was even _worse_. He'd desecrated the body of a girl that had showed him the ultimate kindness, and his moment of clarity caused tears to stream down his pale cheeks.

"Never again," he said as he cradled the dead girl's gored body, rocking slowly to and fro, "never again will I allow this to happen. I am so sorry...so sorry..."

Memories washed over him, thoughts of a young boy that tormented him as a child. The first time he tasted blood was seen again in his mind's eye, and he made a decision. Never again would he let his disease control him...it would take seven hours to tell the tale, but he would never again ingest the blood that gave him life.

Wrapped so firmly in the grip of his mourning, Morbius failed to notice the presence of another in the room until it was too late. He turned his head in time to see the handle of an axe before it collided hard with his face.

He landed with a wet thud on the tile, consciousness lost.

* * *

Michael's eyes cracked open, revealing to him the harsh fluorescent light that illuminated overhead. The amorphous blobs of midnight coalesced as his vision snapped into focus, and his head lobbed like a ragdoll as he attempted to make sense of the signals sent to his brain. Three men stood above him, several feet back, their shadows carving black trenches across the harsh swinging light in the center of the room. The definition of muscle popped out to him across the arms of two of the men, contrasting hard against the smaller frame of the fellow between them. The middle man crouched down, the wooden handle of a fire-ax brought to rest across his shoulder.

"Wake up, fucker," the crouched axe-wielder ordered, "or this time you get the blade instead of the handle."

"I know you," Michael spoke from his spot on the floor, the injury to his head causing each thought to hurt, "the brother..."

James Carter smiled the Devil's grin and then winked at the vampire. "Got it in one," he answered, "but I have to say thanks, friend, for saving me the trouble of hunting you down earlier. I didn't exactly intend for you find Nat's body, but them's the breaks I suppose."

"You killed your sister, your own flesh and blood," Morbius said, his voice growing tenser, harsher, with each word. He started to raise, his hands lifting his body from the cold concrete, but quickly realized the mistake he was making. James tossed a casual glance back to the friend on his left, and with a flex of the bodybuilder's arm Morbius found a fist crashing hard into his jaw, sending him flailing back down to the floor.

"I didn't kill Natalie," James admitted as he stood from his haunches, "you did, the moment she tried to stop me from _killing_ you. She and I used to be career criminals, everything from pick-pocketing to bank robberies, but my last stay in prison changed her – she truly wanted to go legit. And I was happy to let her think that's what we were doing with this stupid homeless shelter she wanted to get off the ground so badly. If she hadn't caught me on my way to your room this evening, my sister would still be alive."

"I don't understand," Morbius groaned while lifting his head from the floor.

"That's clear as glass, hoss." James said with a laugh. "Do you know how much the black market pays for fresh body parts these days? Sure, the homeless usually don't have all their organs intact, but even with a heart riddled with disease or a liver eaten through by alcohol I can still fetch a penny for corneas and kidneys. You, for example, look pretty fucking sickly...but I guarantee I'll at least be able to make some bank off of your parts."

"People call _me_ a monster," Morbius hissed, "but you feel no _remorse_ for your crimes."

"Carl, Jacob," James said with a nod toward his two muscular aides, "hoist his ass up."

Michael offered no resistance as the two young men grabbed him by the arms and pulled him roughly into the air, slamming him down on his weary feet. They held him fast, though their grip wasn't as strong as it probably should have been – Morbius was thin, pale, and sickly. He was covered in blood, and by all appearances emotionally defeated.

"You're number thirty-seven," James said, "any last words?"

 _ **Six hours have passed. You know what to do.**_

Morbius remained silent as his response. "Fair enough," James said as he raised the blood-stained axe high over his head, "say goodbye to your bone marrow, freak show."

The axe came down with a powerful thrust of momentum, its sharpened edge heading on a direct descent toward Michael's neck. At the last moment, the Living Vampire pulled his held right arm toward his chest, heaving the shocked Carl off his feet and into the downward path of the axe. There was nothing that could be done, the axe strike unable to be halted in its search for death – and the weapon bludgeoned hard into the man's back, severing his spine with a frightening crunch.

Carl fell to the ground, the axe buried in his back, and his life ended with a gurgle and a spurt of spinal fluid. The shocked James quickly inched backward on his heels, while Morbius turned his free hand to the stunned Jacob, whose eyes were unable to free themselves from the sight of his deceased friend.

"I have no time for underlings," Morbius said as he grabbed hold of Jacob's left ear. With a snap of his wrist and a contraction of his arm muscle, the vampire yanked hard on the appendage he'd grasped. Jacob's neck snapped like a twig, his head twisting around in a fluid jerk of musculature. Then he fell beside Carl, joining his partner in death.

Morbius looked up, his red eyes cutting through the strands of black hair that had fallen across his face. James, shocked to action by what had happened to his two friends, turned and ran toward the door. He was only inches away from freedom, from escape. Michael wrenched the axe free from the back of the dead man at his feet. As James opened the door to the next room, his would-be victim let the weapon fly through the air, embedding it deep in the wood of the door, slamming it shut once again. James screamed as he pulled his hand back, four fingers now messily removed from his appendage.

"Ahhh! Mother fucker!" James yelled as he buried his damaged hand under his opposite arm, trying desperately to stop the gushes of blood coming from his wound.

Morbius stalked silently toward the fallen murderer, giving him not even a passing glance as he stepped over him. With one hand, the vampire pulled the axe free from the door, splintering the wood with which it had mated. Michael stared long and hard at the stains of blood – old and fresh alike – that had stained the metal blade. Only after this did he turn his attention back to James, who was mewling and crying on the floor, curled into the fetal position.

"Your body is most likely going into shock," Morbius stated as he towered over the boy, "due to blood loss."

"Are you going to kill me?" James asked through his sobs.

Michael smiled.

 _ **I knew you'd reconsider.**_

"Oh yes," the Living Vampire answered, "but yours is a special case. Normally, I would simply feed on your blood and move on. But your actions earlier have inspired a novel idea. You killed a woman that showed me what it was like to be human again, and that is unforgivable...as what I did was unforgivable. Had you left me alone after her murder, I would likely be dead. But I should have known better."

Morbius raised the axe into the air, allowing it hover over James.

"The demon won't let me die...and I think I'll drink from your wound, the same as I did your sister."

And then the axe fell.

 _ **Welcome back, Michael. We've missed you.**_

 **The End**


End file.
